Weaving
by MiddayFiddler
Summary: He wanted to carry the feeling that she was weaving something to that braid – care, hope, maybe even love, whatever he could take with him to Edo and cut it off.


The wooden comb brushed through the ebony hair silently, as if it did not want to disrupt the moment.

,,Summer is really going to end, isn't it, Toshiro-san," she said and slowly moved the comb from top of his head by the line of his spine. He wanted to know whether she was just trying to add her voice to complete already comfortable silence or whether she noticed his shivers. He would have to turn to find out though, and that would mean to separate from her warm fingers following the path of the comb. So he just shrugged his shoulders in affirmative way and wondered if now was the right moment to tell her that those shivers were not from cold. Of course it was not, just as the moment before, and the one before that. He felt the touch of her fingertips on his back again and shivered and prayed from the depth of his heart for her not to come to conclusion that it was too cold to stay on the veranda. He has never prayed for anything, but perhaps this one time could have been an exception.

The eastern sky now had the colour of his hair, colour of not-yet-dried ink and for a moment he thought that their hair together would look like freshly-written letter, like the ones he has been writing for his brother and never sent them, because there was no address to send them to. So he burnt them in the flame of his candle and then watched for hours the paper turning to ash. The ash is also black, coincidentally. He wondered whether Shinsengumi uniforms would be black as well. Too many black in his life. For the first time he was content with his decision never to write another set of letters – with address this time, very well-known one. It was Sougo's task, after all; not his. Never his.

,,You don't have to be that careful," he said, because his thoughts were making him sad and now it was not time for that (he will have plenty of time later, much later, all the time he will need). "I will get them cut in Edo."

"Isn't it a waste, Toshiro-san?" she asked calmly. He decided to act as if he had never noticed envious glances she threw towards his hair, with her own as weak and fragile as she herself. He also decided not to inform her that if she wanted, he would give her all his hair, together with all she would ask for.

"That's direct order from Bakufu," he heard himself explaining, "they don't want their officials to have appearance similar to that of samurai." He could feel his cheeks getting red and hoped she would not notice.

She smiled – he could hear her muscles move to form a smile, that is how close they were to each other – and he did not need to look to know what kind of smile she was wearing. He knew it from all the times he talked and moved and preached just like future Vice-Commander of Shinsengumi would, with dignity and respect and no emotions to spare. That smile was not happy and he was glad he could not see it now, as much as he was glad she would not go with them – for the first time he really was. He was sure he would have crumbled if he had to see it every day.

Not even for a moment it seemed wrong for him to assume that he would have seen her day after day, had she gone with them to Edo as well. She belongs to where they are, Sougo and Kondou-san. And maybe, just maybe, where he is, too.

"I see," she replied belatedly. He wanted to say something, but then realized that she had been combing the same strand of hair for such a long time the sky turned black – not ink black anymore, but tar black, with no moon, nor stars. It would rain tomorrow, he thought and mentally listed all the difficulties that came with travelling in rain, because otherwise he would have to think about the strand and the hand that held it that seemed to be trembling. It is cold outside, it really is. She should not be on the porch now, clad only in summer clothes with no blanket, not in her state. He barely refrained from shaking his head. Her illness was another thing he did not want to think about in this moment. He did not want to think about her at all.

He is sure if he did it for long enough, he would turn and take her to his arms and stay for the rest of his life. He knows he would spend his life regretting it, as much as he will regret leaving.

"Can I braid them?" she asked, interrupting the thread of his thoughts. He was glad for it to be interrupted; he was glad so much he did not question her. She has never braided his hair; the only thing he had ever seen her braid was few loose threads from the bottom of the old tapestry hanging in the hall. Her fingers were slender and pale and their knuckles were sickly white and he knew that if they had lived in an old romance the sight would have been considered romantic – fragile girl and secluded runt who just found his place under the sun.

They do not live in the romance, though. A dying woman and a coward running from himself, that is who they are.

She was weaving the strands of his hair together – slowly and loosely, it was one of the worse days, one of those that omen weeks of coughing and fever. He pushed that thought to the back of his mind. He wanted to carry the feeling that she was vowing something to that braid – care, hope, maybe even love, whatever he could take with him to Edo and cut it off. He wanted – and yet the only thing he felt was her fingers, a bit warmer that they should have been, and the image of her lying on the bed, coughing out blood. He knew he would lose both, but until he managed to realize that, the braid was finished, the end untied and her shivering fingers slipping down his spine only to fell voidly on the ground.

"Hopefully it will not rain tommorrow," she said and it sounded hopeless and hollow.

Yes, the hopelessness and definitiveness, that he will carry gladly. Vowed into his soon-to-be-cut hair, she will remain will all the possible futures of her – the other ones, happy and vivid.

"The summer ended soon this year," he said only to reply somehow, stood up and walked inside, not looking back. She followed him afterwards.

The comb lied forgotten on the terrace.


End file.
